Dark Revelations (3 page)
Authors: Duane Swierczynski,Anthony E. Zuiker
Dark pondered it for a moment but decided to move on. If this unknown subject—“Labyrinth”—wanted the focus to be the riddle, then he would have sent it alone. Chances were, the riddle would only make sense in context, when examined with the other two objects.
And you don’t kill two cops in cold blood without having something important to say.
“What’s the deal with the alarm clock?” Dark asked. “Anything unusual?”
“Yeah, that gave the bomb squad guys a nice little jolt when they X-rayed it, let me tell you,” Banner said. “But there were no traces of explosives, no hidden wires, no nothing. The clock is harmless, unable to trigger anything except a really annoying ringing sound.”
Dark looked it over. The thing looked like it had been plucked from someone’s bedside table back in the 1950s. “Maybe it’s merely parts for a test run.”
Test runs that had been so popular over the past year. Send bomb parts through—timers, wires, circuit boards—then sit back and watch how a particular security detail reacts. Or doesn’t react. Homegrown anarchists and international terrorists have tried it plenty of times before. The entire state of California was still reeling after the bombing of the Niantic Tower up in San Francisco a few months back. Security precautions, already tight, were now sphincter tight. The thinking was, you don’t waste real explosives until you’ve exploited the right gaps in security.
“Could be,” Banner said, “but then how do you explain this?”
Banner pointed to the sketch.
Which was a pencil rendering of a beautiful—and completely naked—woman. Dark could tell this wasn’t just a practice sketch of some anonymous nude model who worked for an art studio. You could tell because of the care and detail given to the woman’s face. The high cheekbones, the slow sultry smile, the life in her eyes. Which, in turn, made the woman easier to identify.
“Bethany Millar,” Dark said.
“Who?” Banner asked.
chapter 3
LABYRINTH
I
drive west on Wilshire toward Santa Monica, stopping to complete a few quick errands along the way, ticking off the items on the long checklist in my mind, making a few untraceable phone calls, buying supplies via anonymous Internet cutouts.
drive west on Wilshire toward Santa Monica, stopping to complete a few quick errands along the way, ticking off the items on the long checklist in my mind, making a few untraceable phone calls, buying supplies via anonymous Internet cutouts.
The car I drive is from a long-term lot near LAX and won’t be reported missing for another three weeks. The license plate is a forgery with bogus tags, incredibly easy to obtain. Makes me wonder why anyone in the United States would go through the hassle of actually buying and registering a motor vehicle.
Not that I need to take these extra precautions, really—there is no physical evidence whatsoever to link me with the gentleman who had entered LAPD headquarters. We just spent a little time together inside his mind.
I stop for more coffee—check the time.
Were the LAPD starting to put it together now?
Had they opened the package by now?
Of course they’ve opened the package. They didn’t have a choice. Which is why I was forced to destroy those detectives.
I am not sadistic.
I needed the LAPD to open my package, and I knew there was no way they’d risk destroying the only shred of evidence in the now high-profile murders of two highly decorated, highly respected police officers.
Me? I would have rather just dropped off the package and let it be done at that.
Today, though, you really have to go to extremes to get someone’s attention.
As I think about what might be happening across town, a woman approaches.
She’s pretty in that bland California way.
Probably thinks she’s someone’s idea of PERFECTION, even though inside she’s just another filthy whore, two life-altering experiences away from becoming a moist hole for rent.
She says,
Hi, sorry to bother you. . . .
And then proceeds to ask me directions to some high-end clothing boutique, perhaps I’ve heard of it.
People are always asking me for directions or help.
I’ve got that kind of face—someone close to me once told me that.
Approachable.
Ordinary.
Friendly.
And that was the point, originally.
But if they could see through MY own eyes . . .
See the world as it really existed, not the one that had been sold to you by the governments of the world—
They’d run SCREAMING.
Like this woman should be.
I tell her,
No, I’m really sorry. I’m not from around here. I could look it up for you on my phone, if you like?
She smiles, suddenly bashful, and says,
Oh, no worries, that’s okay. Where are you from?
I nod and smile. She’s not really interested in directions. She wanted an opportunity to meet me.
I COULD introduce myself.
I COULD let her in.
She doesn’t realize how easily I could coax her into my labyrinth—she’s practically begging for it. Just one step and she’d be stumbling down the first corridor, faster than she realized, making her first sharp turn, confused, the first tremors of terror running through her veins, then thinking that the only way out is to turn around and go back the way she came, but that way would be blocked, and she’d have no choice but to wander deeper and deeper into the maze . . .
. . . to me.
All of this would take a matter of hours—the afternoon really. And her life would never be the same.
(If I allowed her to keep her life.)
But I have things to do, much BIGGER subjects to coax into my maze.
So I tell her,
I’m from Chicago, out scouting property for my wife and kids, they’re really excited about moving out to sunny California, you know? All this fresh air and sunshine and friendly people?
And I see the light dim in her eyes when I say the words
wife
and
kids
and she’s polite but she’s also clearly disappointed.
wife
and
kids
and she’s polite but she’s also clearly disappointed.
She doesn’t know how lucky she is.
She doesn’t know what she’s narrowly avoided.
As I cruise down Moomat Ahiko Way toward the PCH, I wonder how far they’ve gotten with my little message.
Are they still staring at the photo of the nude whore, wondering what I may have done to her?
chapter 4
DARK
D
ark stared at the drawing.
ark stared at the drawing.
It was Bethany Millar—in the flesh, during the prime of her life.
Dark recognized her right away. The blond hair, the upturned nose, the classic alabaster skin and full lips. He’d spent many years sitting up late at night, trying to drink himself into a half-coma, watching old movies on cable TV. Bethany Millar was a late 1960s/early 1970s screen siren who starred in a string of B-movies and exploitation flicks, almost all of them released before Dark was born. To the best of his knowledge, she’d done plenty of cheesecake-type stuff, but never nudes. If any members of the LAPD working inside the administration building today were aware of her, it was because their
New Centurions
–era fathers used to keep a pinup of her in their lockers. Millar was largely forgotten now.
New Centurions
–era fathers used to keep a pinup of her in their lockers. Millar was largely forgotten now.
Except, of course, by the
unknown subject
who’d sent this package.
unknown subject
who’d sent this package.
“Uh, Steve?” Banner asked. “Who’s Bethany Millar?”
“Hang on,” Dark said, pulling the phone from his pocket and aiming it at the sketch. One click and he had a hi-res image saved to his phone.
“Uh, you really shouldn’t send that image to anyone outside the department,” Banner said.
“I’ll be right back.”
“At least lie and tell me you’re sending it to Riggins.”
Dark stopped. Looked at Banner, deadpan.
“Okay. I’m sending it to Riggins.”
All of the tension seemed to gush out of Banner for a moment before he sucked it back up again.
“Wait—you’re lying, aren’t you?”
Dark was already spinning through his contacts. Vincente Valentine had been a film director until he retired in the 1990s, living in his huge, ostentatious Malibu beach house just a few houses away from where Dark and Sibby used to live. Valentine had once bragged about working with Bethany Millar—“yeah,
the
Bethany Millar”—in an early 1970s gangster flick called
Deep Cut
. At the time, Valentine had been astonished that a whippersnapper like Dark even knew who Bethany Millar was.
the
Bethany Millar”—in an early 1970s gangster flick called
Deep Cut
. At the time, Valentine had been astonished that a whippersnapper like Dark even knew who Bethany Millar was.
CALL ME, Dark typed in the subject line, then sent off the image.
Valentine called Dark within sixty seconds, and picked up the conversation as if they’d spoken just last night as opposed to five long years ago. You could always count on retired creative types to call you back right away. Most of their lives had been spent waiting by the phone, and it was a hard habit to break.
“Nice sketch, Stevie,” Valentine said. “Where did you find it?”
“Inside a box the LAPD thought contained a bomb.”
“Sheesh. Is that what I’ve been hearing about on CNN? Bombs? The only thing that bombed was
Deep Cut
. Definitely a low point in my career.”
Deep Cut
. Definitely a low point in my career.”
Another old-timer trait: Pretend like nothing shocked you. Ever.
“Does the sketch mean anything to you?”
“A man my age, it means a lot,” Valentine said. “Bethany’s never looked better. I might have to disappear into the bathroom for a while.”
Vincente Valentine: always the joker, even after two and a half cardiac arrests and three ex-wives. Every time he saw Dark and Sibby, he made an obvious pass at Sibby—which she thought was cute. Dark knew it was habit for a lifelong lothario like Valentine. Like breathing.
“Anything else about the sketch?” Dark asked.
“What should interest you,
Stevie
, is not the subject, but the artist.”
Stevie
, is not the subject, but the artist.”
“What do you mean?”
“My retired eyes could be failing me, but I swear that sketch was done by Herbie Loeb. Which would be strange, because . . . holy shit, does this mean Herbie Loeb was boffing Bethany Millar? And how did I not know about it?”
Right there—the connection Dark had needed.
“Thanks, Mr. Valentine. I owe you one.”
“Not at all, Stevie. You’ve given this old man
plenty
. And you kiss that beautiful wife of yours for me. With tongue, if you don’t mind.”
plenty
. And you kiss that beautiful wife of yours for me. With tongue, if you don’t mind.”
Dark realized, with a jolt, that he didn’t know.
It had been five years, and all over the news, but Valentine didn’t know.
Sibby was gone.
“Yeah,” Dark said, then pressed END.
Within thirty minutes an art expert from Holmby Hills had been rushed out to LAPD HQ to authenticate the sketch. Yes, it was a previously unknown sketch by the great Herbert Loeb, one of the most widely acclaimed pop artists of the late twentieth century. This sketch
shouldn’t
exist,
couldn’t
exist . . . yet here it was. The art expert looked like he was going to have a stroke.
shouldn’t
exist,
couldn’t
exist . . . yet here it was. The art expert looked like he was going to have a stroke.
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